


The Code

by Madtom_Publius



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-27 14:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6288760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madtom_Publius/pseuds/Madtom_Publius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the tiny island of Nevis, poor and insignificant, Alexander learned from his father what it meant to be a gentleman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr by publius-esquire, edited for grammar and tweaked for content

Alec sat still on his stool as his mother ran a cold rag over his face, scrubbing at the dirt and blood standing as testament of his tussle earlier that morning. His bloody nose and bruised knuckles still hurt less than the affronted pride that had swelled in his chest when the boy had confronted him on his walk home from Synagogue, throwing mud on his newly-patched waistcoat; it had been ripped open again in the scuffle, but if Ajax had not pulled him away, he may have come out even worse for wear.

 

Rachel rinsed the washcloth in the basin before reapplying it, tilting her son’s head up. Her eyes betrayed weariness, a sign that was not the first time she had had to clean up her sons after someone had pricked their sensitive honors; their father had bestowed bad habits on them. If the matter were up to her, she would have taught them to ignore the abuses they occasionally heard from the town gossips and fishwives, as she had learned to do; but then she would have been lying to herself if she did not admit words could hurt worse than a fist, but at least men had that option.

 

“You should stop taking every insult to heart,” she told Alec for what felt like the thousandth instant. “You’re fortunate that boy didn’t break your nose.”

 

“Fie on that!” The man across the table sat his tankard down and leaned forward in his chair. James Hamilton waived his hand dismissively at his wife’s concerns, as he always did when confronted with a problem he could not easily solve, and as he had done so often of late. “What was he supposed to do, Rachel, run away like a coward? Come here, son, let me see.”

 

The lad jumped off the stool and ran to his father’s side. Calloused hands roughly examined the damage, turning his face from left to right, and when satisfied no permanent injury was had James cast a bright smile and patted his son’s shoulder proudly. “That’s my lad. I’m sure you gave worse than you got, eh? Don’t listen to your mother on this, no gentleman can ignore an insult to his honor.”

 

An agitated sigh escaped Rachel’s lips as she gave the basin to Rebecca to toss the spoiled water out the opened window, who did so, but not without a barely audible _humph_ from her lips: she would never know what it was that got under those Hamilton boys’ skins; her son Christian never got into such ugly fights, no matter how goaded, she’d taught him better than that and he was just as old as Jem was, so there really was no excuse for these repeated incidents. 

 

Glaring from the corner of his eye at the sharp look on his wife’s face, Hamilton narrowed his eyes but offered further advice. “But a gentleman also does not descend into fisticuffs like a common street-urchin,” he said. “You’re no street bully, Alec, you’re an aristocrat. Remember that. We men of honor do not settle our disputes with bare fists like the rabble. We live with order. We must abide by the Code.”

 

The boy’s eyes brightened. He sat down by his father’s lap, listening intensely as he always did whenever his parent set about his reminiscences of better times, especially when it involved the Code. Because in those moments, he was not poor, barred from the Christian school, and wearing his brother’s inadequate clothing, but he was instead living as his father’s rank would have him believe he deserved to live.

 

His mother wished his father would rather find a means of employment than build his famed castles in the air.

 

Hamilton sipped from his tankard again, looking down at the entranced eyes of his wife’s youngest child. “Did you ever hear about the duel between Barbot and Mills?” Alec shook his head and pressed that he’d very much like to hear of it. “Shortly before you boys were born, old Mills and Barbot were arguing over…Ah, but you’re not interested in those legal details, are you?”

 

Alec again nodded, stating precociously but nasally, trying his best to copy the rough Scottish burr of his father’s voice, “Very much, Papa.”

 

His father shrugged, hoping to have skipped to the gorier details, but continued regardless. “Well they had been arguing over a land deal; Barbot was a young lawyer, you see, he enjoyed using the courts to his advantage; that’s a lesson you’ll learn one day, Alec, the man who controls the courts, who controls the law, controls everything. But I prattle. Mills insulted Barbot’s honor. Gentlemen cannot allow for that without satisfaction. So the two agreed to meet at Frigate Bay and settle their dispute as only men of honor should.”

 

“What happened?” asked Alec, completely rapt by his father’s story.

 

“Mills was shot where he stood,” Rachel cut in, glaring darkly at her husband. Pulling Alec up by his shoulders, she put a bowl in his hands and hurriedly pushed him towards the door. “Go and fetch some milk from the goat before dinner, and then go find your brother.”

 

Alec shielded his eyes from the sudden brightness of the sun as his mother all but threw him outside, but he hesitated by the doorframe to listen to his mother rebuke his father again for filling his head with what she called those “romantic stories.” Hamilton accused her of making their sons too feminine. “Madam, you would have them cast their heads down and bear the grossest of insults without a firm rebuke. Is it your desire to have them be branded as puppies their whole lives, fit to be nothing but kicked about? I will not let my sons be treated that way. There’s nothing better a man can do than learn to fight for his honor.”

 

“Honor will not put food on this table, James.”

 

James Hamilton scoffed, taking a large drink from his tankard before dismissively waiving his hand again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr by madtomedgar

In his delirium, General Hamilton was only aware of the heat of the July morning. It had been so hot the day his father taught him how to be a gentleman.

 

The friendly scent of whiskey and pomatum welled up out of the past. “You remember what I taught you about honor, lad?”

 

“Yes, Papa.” His child’s tongue had always been laced with his mother’s French on that word.

 

“Good lad. I’m going to teach you how to defend it, if it comes to that.” Try as he might he could never quite imitate the proud Scottish tones of his father’s voice. His father had placed the box on the low table, kneeling down as he opened it on the somewhat worn pistols. “When you’re older, I’ll get you your own brace. Now,” he took one out, explaining the intricacies of the piece’s workings and the particular choreography of the duel. It sounded so grand. The boy’s eyes were wide in rapt attention. “I’m going to teach you how to stand, Alec. Stance is very important.” He stood up, pistol in hand. His son never doubted he was a true aristocrat. “Put your side to your opponent, like this, good boy. Stand up proud, to your full height.” His father put a firm hand on his shoulder, correcting his posture. He didn’t even come to his father’s armpit, he was so small for his age. “Skinny little thing, they’ll have a hard time hitting you, eh?” Why could he not be strong like James? “Chin up, there, and you look him in the eye. Proud glance, my boy. This man has done you wrong. You want to fell him with your gaze before you even raise your weapon.”

 

“Yes, Papa.” But his eyes were too eager, too desperate for the approval of his parent and all the world besides to ever master the commanding aristocratic glare.

 

“Now,” his father had come behind him so their bodies were flush. It was miserably hot, but he didn’t care, he loved the loving care being taken with him, the almost heady aroma of his father’s fancy coat. His father took the pistol in one hand and his slender boy’s hand in the other and showed him how to grip. The piece was almost too large for his hand. “When your seconds say ‘present,’ that’s when you raise your pistols.” His father lifted up the gun, taking his little arm with it. “Cock it, like that, good. Aim before you fire. Never put the sun in your eyes. You need to have a clear shot. Now, if the fellow’s made remarks about your professional character, you don’t need to kill him. Get his shoulder or his hip to put the scoundrel in his place. If he’s insulted your family, particularly your female relatives, then you shoot him through the heart.”

 

“Yes, Papa. But…”

 

“But what, Alec?”

 

“Do I have to shoot him?” It was all so grand, so romantic, but the boy didn’t want to kill anyone. He hated the other children who taunted him and said horrid things about his mother and wouldn’t let him go to the regular school, but killing them like that made him queasy. Did that mean he was a coward?

 

“If you want to be a gentleman. You do, don’t you?” More than anything.

 

“Yes, Papa, of course.”

 

“Right then, now, once you’ve taken your aim, you fire.” He moved a slim finger to squeeze the trigger of nearly the same size, but his father stopped him. “Whoa now! Take care of that pistol! It’s undischarged and still cocked! You fire it now, you’ll do harm!”

 

The rocking of the boat tipped him more than 20 years out of his stupor to see a hand carelessly reaching for his weapon. “Take care of that pistol; it is undischarged, and still cocked; it may go off and do harm.” And he hadn’t meant for that to happen. “Sorry, Papa.” He lowered the piece, holding it more gingerly now.

 

“Never wave one of those around carelessly. You don’t want to cause an accident. What if you’d hit James?” Then I would be your heir. “Tomorrow while your mother’s out I’ll take you down to the beach and teach you how to shoot. No son of mine is going into the world without knowing that.” His face was bright with excitement. He could, even with his puny frame, be a son his father could be proud of. “Don’t tell your mother about it, Alec. You know how she hates this sort of thing. She doesn’t understand, thinks we’re putting on airs. But then she can’t, she’s not an aristocrat like us.”

 

He’d wanted to ask if they were married didn’t that make her one, but he knew to keep silent. “I won’t tell her, Papa.”

 

“You’re a good lad, Alec. And one day, you’ll be teaching your own boys the Code.” It always sounded like the sort of word that was capitalized when his father said it. He should have listened, poor Philip, he should have stood behind him and taught him how to stand, present, aim, above all aim, fire, let your gaze fall upon your opponent so he knows he is meeting a man of honor… _delope_ was a word he had learned from someone else, that voice had never mangled those French syllables with its accent. “You’re a good boy, Alec. You’ll be a fine gentleman some day.”

 

He had failed, as dunce student at his father’s lessons. _“Is Alec even my son?”_

 

If he had been more attentive, stood straighter, not let his gaze falter, not been hit, perhaps his father wouldn’t have stormed out the door that night, because of him, never to return, because of him, abandoned his poor mother and James because of him, but no, that was wrong, that was backwards.

 

Pain shot through him, jolting him back to New York as they lifted him out of the boat. “Send for Mrs. Hamilton.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr by publius-esquire, edited for grammar and tweaked for content

Alec began fiddling with his fingers, just to give his hands something to do, as the time it took his father to reload the pistol seemed to drag on forever. He thought it at first something that wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes, but his father seemed to be having a difficult time coordinating the simple task of putting the ball into the barrel, eventually devolving into a minor swearing fit. 

 

“Piece of antiquated shite,” James Hamilton mumbled to himself as he finished reloading and cocking the pistol before kneeling back down to refit it in the slim hand of his youngest son. “What did I explain to you about standing facing the sun, lad? You were squinting so much, could you even see a thing?”

 

“Sorry, Papa,” Alec could only mutter, holding the weapon again. He felt embarrassed, ashamed even. His brother Jem had at least been able to hit the tree on his first shot when their father had brought him out to teach him to the beach to practice the Code. Alec had been lucky that his shot had struck the brick of the sugar mill, and that it hadn’t hit any planter or slave that could have been walking by. 

 

Hamilton sighed and removed the flask from inside his coat, uncorking the top to take a heavy swig of the whiskey within. Sweat dripped down his face. It had been years since he’d moved there, and Nevis would never feel like Scotland. He couldn’t get used to the sun. And it was too hot particularly on the beach that morning, he ought to have waited to when it would be cooler in the evening once the sun set in the ocean. But it would take Rachel only a few hours to complete her shopping in Charlestown, and he didn’t feel like enduring the nagging he would no doubt receive from her if she found out he’d taken Alec out to learn how to fire pistols for his honor. For a woman born from such a respectable family, no matter how French, she had no respect for the Code and how important it was to instill it into their boys, not make them cowardly and womanish; but then, James had begun to observe, she hadn’t much cared for her own honor, so why should he have expected her to care for theirs?

 

After another swallow of drink, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Alright, Alec, let’s see you try again.” 

 

He watched as his son resumed his stance, back straightened, putting his side to the palm tree across from him, facing away from the sun this time. The pistol, still looking too big for his little hand, rose up and Alec took aim. 

 

“Aim for the trunk,” his father instructed, putting the whiskey flask back into his coat pocket. “Imagine it’s your opponent’s chest. Imagine he has insulted the honors of you and your family. You’re facing him as a gentleman, lad, and he must pay for his words as one. Now take aim for his heart, and fire.”

 

Alec bit his bottom lip and tried to imagine. He wanted the tree to give the illusion of some of the boys on the island, ones who had called his mother terrible names. They deserved to be met with aristocratic disdain, to have Alec meet them as he was: a gentleman. It was so much more romantic than getting into brawls and fisticuffs with them outside of Synagogue. And it’s what his father wanted, to be worthy of his name, and for his father he would do anything. 

 

“I said take aim and fire,” Hamilton repeated, furrowing his brows in frustration. 

 

But the more Alec envisioned the palm tree as one of his enemies, the more hesitant he found himself becoming, and hated himself for it. If only they would just apologize for the meanness of their words. And his mother always said that God would never forgive a man who’d kill in cold blood.

 

“If this were the actual field, your opponent would have fired and killed you by now!”

 

Alec thought maybe they would just need one more chance to reflect and see how wrong they were, that they really wouldn’t need to fire at each other.

 

“Shoot, boy!”

 

Sucking in his breath, Alec reflexively raised his arm higher, squeezed the trigger and fired the pistol, sending the ball harmlessly high to rake the palm leaves. 

 

“Dammit!” his father cursed before he could contain himself. Looking at his son, who rubbed his shoulder from the recoil and meekly presented the pistol back to him for reload, James took out his flask again and drowned the remainder of its contents. He sighed deeply, licking the whiskey from his lips as he contemplated. Perhaps Alec was too young, too small to aim the pistol correctly; but Jem hadn’t been any older and he’d done just fine. Maybe Alec was just a bad shot. Poor lad, that wouldn’t bode well if he got into any altercations that resulted in an affair of honor. 

 

“There’s no use wasting anymore bullets with it today,” he muttered, taking the pistol in hand and walking them back to where he’d lain the storage box. 

 

Alec fidgeted with his fingers, feeling his father’s disappointment wash over him like the wind. He’d let him down. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

 

Closing the box, James Hamilton stared at the boy for a heavy moment. Alec was so sensitive a lad, so unlike his brother Jem, so unlike his grandfather for whom he’d been named. Too much like his mother. Too bookish. Too French, like the lilt of his tongue Rachel had given him. There was still time to weed it out of him, though, to man him up, shape him into the aristocrat his birth entitled him to be. 

 

Rachel didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. 

 

He sighed again but reached out to ruffle his boy’s hair. “It’s alright, lad. We’ll try practicing again another day.”


End file.
